Taking a Gamble on Finding Happiness…

How Do You Say “Fuck Yourself” in Poem?

When I started writing poetry, I think I was in middle school. I may have been even younger. I don’t recall. I’ve blocked out most of my past. I only remember when I see or hear or smell something that reminds me of it. But I’ve always loved poetry. I always liked the rhythm and the rhyme of it. And I’ve always been in love with the idea of love as long as I can remember. The practice of it has never quite worked out for me, but I’m optimistic, one day, it may. Oh, but the idea of it is something I’ve loved trying to capture with words. Not just my own love, but other’s love too. If I see it, I want to write about it. I want to capture one little moment of it to save and remember forever so that even if the love doesn’t last forever, that moment, good or bad, will always be there as a reminder.

So I write love poems. I never write them with the intention of ever sharing them with anyone, but then one day I did. I went to a poetry slam and I read one out loud. It wasn’t anything major, but it held the contents of my heart in that moment. And even though that moment was over, and I had moved past it, it served as a reminder of “him” and the situation… This was the poem

I told you I was done

but you refused to believe it

I told you I couldn’t take anymore

and you chose to ignore it

I tried to tell you that time does not heal all wounds

but you thought I’d get over it

Well, I’m over it now

Heartbroken times gone.

I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror

I no longer felt the urge to spit in the face that looked back

I thought about all that you’ve done to me and I reached behind me,

patted my own back, and congratulated myself on being done with you.

And I fucked him

Like you fucked all of them

just to be sure

You were done with me too

There was no rhythm or rhyme to the poem. It was basically just me bleeding onto paper when I wrote it. And every time I read it, it takes me back to that place. I remember the boyfriend. I remember the guy. I remember the whole night. The whole relationship comes back in a tsunami of memories. It’s funny how you think you’ll never get over being hurt. You’ll never get over losing someone. You’ll never be the same person you were with them. I think only the last part is true.

And as I have been looking over some of my old poems, a lot of them are about ex boyfriends or ex lovers. I have a tendency to always write love poems at the beginning or end of my relationships. It’s then that my muse is in full speed motion. My pen is always silent when I’m content.

Then I thought, once I get past this public speaking problem I have. Wouldn’t it be fun to hold my own poetry event? I could call it, “You Are Cordially Invited to Go Fuck Yourself” and I can invite all of my exes and give them front row seats. And I will recite my poems. And they can watch and listen and work as a team to try to figure out which one of them I was talking about. And then I laugh and laugh and laugh about it.

But I’d have to get over the public speaking thing first which doesn’t seem like it is going anywhere. And then I would have to find said exes, especially the ones I had kids with. Those guys are like rabbits in a hat. One minute they are there and the next minute…. poof, like they never existed. Maybe it’s just another one of my terrible ideas, but my terrible ideas always turn out to be the most fun and memorable.

Anyway, there’s another poetry event this weekend. I’ll be doing another poem if I don’t chicken out. It’s also about love, in a way. This one is actually an idea that came to me from a blog I wrote. I’m not going to share it here today, because if I keep my nerve and if I have someone there to record it for me, I’ll post the video and the words probably as Sunday’s blog. I’ve decided every now and again, there may be a smattering of poetry here for those of you who like poetry. And you can steal it or share it or send it to your ex boyfriend and call it a day.